Читать книгу Little Girl Found - Jo Leigh - Страница 11

If the SOB said the Bulls “was robbed” one more time, Jack was going to get his gun and shoot the damn television. He should probably do it, anyway. Before, he’d never really watched it that much. A ball game here, a documentary there. But never sitcoms, and never daytime shows. He was convinced daytime television was a plot to destroy the minds of wastrels who weren’t working days like good soldiers. The only show worth a damn was Jeopardy, but lately he could never seem to get the final question right. Probably a sign of his diminishing mental capacity. His brain was turning to mush, just like his body.

Jack grabbed his long-necked Corona and took a swig of the warm brew. It was late, and he should go to bed. Maybe tonight he’d sleep. Maybe he wouldn’t lie there in the dark, listening to the low vibrations of his downstairs neighbor’s rap music, or the happy couple in 3F who liked to serenade each other with the most vile curses he’d ever heard. And that was saying something for a twelve-year veteran of the Houston PD.

And maybe tonight he wouldn’t think about the way things were now. Or the way things used to be.

He got the remote from the side pocket of the recliner that had become his home and started flipping channels. Once he was away from the sports channel, it was one “infomercial” after another, each selling some contraption he didn’t want or couldn’t use. A potato peeler. An ab cruncher. Richard Simmons weeping in the embrace of one of his acolytes.

He kept pushing the button until he found a show in black and white. He didn’t have to go further. It didn’t matter what the movie was. Sighing, he tried to get comfortable again, which wasn’t so easy. His hip ached, a throb that had become his constant companion. His bum leg lay unnaturally stiff, as if it was made of plastic, instead of flesh and bone.

But then he saw Richard Widmark in a wide-lapeled suit, his hat at a rakish angle and his smile as wicked as the devil’s pet cat. It occurred to Jack that a fresh beer would hit the spot, and maybe a salami sandwich. But that would mean getting up. He wasn’t that thirsty.

THE POUNDING ON HIS DOOR sent a jolt of adrenaline through his body and jump-started his heart. The first thing he noticed was that the television show was in color. He looked at his watch. Four-eighteen. Who the hell would bang on his door at four-eighteen in the morning?

The pounding quickened into the sound of desperation. Jack grabbed his cane, resting all his weight on the sturdy wood as he struggled to stand. The pain in his hip made him grimace, but he did it, taking a second to adjust his balance. “Hold on, dammit,” he said, but not loud enough to be heard over the fist on wood.

He lurched to the table and picked up his weapon, his thumb resting on the safety. Then he made his way to the door. He looked through the peephole and saw the distorted face of a man, someone familiar, but he couldn’t place him. He leaned on his good leg, resting the cane against his bad leg, and then opened the door.

“McCabe,” the man said, his voice so high with tension he sounded like a woman. “Thank God!”

Jack’s gaze moved down to the two bundles in the man’s arms. One of them was a child, wrapped up in a quilt. The other was a stuffed pillowcase. He looked once more at his visitor and remembered where he’d seen him before. “Roy.”

“Yeah, Roy. Roy Chandler. From downstairs. Listen, man,” he said, edging his way inside, “I need your help.”

“I’m on medical leave. You’ll have to call the department.”

“No, not that. I…it’s my wife. She’s hurt. Real bad. I need to get to the hospital.”

“You want my car?” Jack asked, confused.

Roy held the kid out, pushing the bundle against Jack’s chest. Jack grabbed hold with his free arm, instinctively, surprised at the weight. His cane fell, bouncing off the door frame. “What the hell?” he said, trying not to bounce off the door frame himself.

“I have to get to the hospital,” Roy said, dropping the pillowcase by Jack’s feet. “Now. I can’t wait and I can’t take her with me. I’ll be back. An hour. Two at the most.” Roy stepped back quickly, moving neatly out of range. He looked behind him, down toward the parking lot. Then he turned again to face Jack, the desperation that had made his voice so high now in his eyes. “I’ll be back,” he said. “Take care of her. She’s all…” He didn’t finish, just turned and darted toward the staircase.

“Hey!” Jack started forward, but realized instantly it was a mistake. The pain in his hip almost doubled him over, and it was all he could do not to drop the child. When he was finally able to stand again, Roy was halfway down to the parking lot.

Jack hobbled to the couch and used his free arm to balance himself. He swept last Thursday’s Chronicle to the floor, then put the kid down, moving the quilt aside to make sure the small bundle was in fact a living, breathing child. It was. A girl. Maybe four or five. Blond hair a mess of curls, pale skin with pink lips. Amazingly enough, she was sound asleep. He wondered how she could do that.

He’d think about that later. For now, he had to try to catch Roy Chandler. He turned, and even that small motion had to be timed, weighed carefully, planned and executed with a deliberation that made Jack sure he’d found hell and moved in. A trickle of sweat itched at the back of his neck, but he couldn’t walk and chew gum at the same time, let alone pick up his cane, hold his gun and rub his neck. His focus remained on the cane and he forced himself forward. Step by bloody step until he reached the door.

He put his gun in the waistband of his pants so he could grab hold of the door while he bent for his cane. He felt as if he were using someone else’s body—an old man’s, weak and brittle. The joke was, inside he still felt like the basketball player he’d been in college. The cop who’d aced the obstacle course at the academy. The man he’d been only four short months ago.

He straightened and shifted his weight to the cane. He looked back, but the kid hadn’t moved. Then he went outside, the cold wet of the Houston night a jarring contrast to the cozy heat in his apartment.

Looking down over the balcony, he saw that Roy hadn’t gotten into his car yet. He stood under the light from the pole behind him, staring at a car pulling into the lot. As Jack hobbled toward the stairs, he kept checking on Roy and then shifted his attention to the car. A Ford Taurus, dark, two men in the front. He relaxed, recognizing the unmarked police car. HPD had half a dozen just like it for the vice boys.

Knowing they’d check out Roy and hold him for a while, Jack slowed his pace, but didn’t stop. As he reached the staircase, he realized he hadn’t asked what hospital Roy’s wife was in or what had happened to her. Why in hell he’d have to leave his kid behind, especially with him. Jack didn’t know spit about kids, except that they were noisy and they usually smelled bad.

The steps weren’t easy for him, and he had to lean on the railing just the right way. As he lowered his bad leg, he heard two short pops, and he froze, except for his thumb which released the safety on his gun almost of its own accord. The sound was unmistakable. Gunshots through a silencer.

He looked down to see Roy on the ground, a dark stain spreading on his chest. The cop in the passenger seat jumped out of the car and bent over to evaluate his work.

Jack’s every instinct urged him to hurry. To find out what the hell was going on. This was bad. It was bad in a way he could feel all the way to his bones. Cops didn’t shoot like that. Not an unarmed man.

But he couldn’t hurry. The best he could do was take the steps one at a time, forcing the pain to the back of his mind to be remembered in vivid detail later. He watched the cop stand and head back for the car. “Hey! Wait!”

But either the cop didn’t hear him or he didn’t care, because he just kept on going. Even though Jack tried like hell, he couldn’t make out the guy’s features. The way he stood, he was more of a shadow than a man, and then he was back in the car. The driver hit the gas so hard the car lurched forward, tires squealing.

A light went on in the apartment on Jack’s left, and then a woman’s head poked out the door. She looked at him with terror in her eyes.

“Call 911,” he said. “Now.”

Her head snapped back and the door slammed shut, and he could hear the dead bolt click as he finally reached the parking lot. He hoped the woman would do as he asked, but from the way Roy looked, she didn’t have to rush. Jack could see the unnatural attitude of the body, the crooked way Roy’s head lay.

Cursing his luck, he made his way over, and as he moved next to Roy he saw the dark pool of blood blossom around the motionless arms and chest. A man’s life seeping into the filthy asphalt.

Then he saw a movement. One he hadn’t expected. Roy’s head tilted to the left, and Jack saw his eyes open, then close. Jack bent his good leg, holding on to the cane with all his might as he eased down to his knees. It hurt like hell, but Roy was alive. Trying to say something.

“Protect her…” he said, his voice as whispery as a ghost. “Get the money. Don’t…” He stopped, frozen in a seizure, then relaxing nearer to death. “The cops…Don’t…”

The last word was drowned in a sickening gurgle, and Roy was gone. Jack put his hand to Roy’s neck, checking the jugular for a pulse. Nothing. Stone-cold nothing.

Jack looked back at the apartment building. Several lights were on now, although no one had come outside. They all stayed behind their plywood doors, as if that could keep them safe. He heard a distant siren, which, he supposed, was all he had a right to expect.

If he hadn’t been caught so off guard, he never would have let Roy leave his kid behind. He’d never have let Roy leave at all, at least not until he understood what was going on. But he had been caught, and he had taken the kid and let the father go. So while everyone else in the building stayed inside, peeking through parted curtains, he was left with a kid, a body and one hell of a question. Why had the cops gunned down Roy Chandler in cold blood?

It took him a couple of awkward minutes to stand again. By that time, a patrol car, familiar blue, arrived. The car stopped a couple of hundred feet away, so the cops wouldn’t contaminate the crime scene. The doors opened and Jack recognized Bill Haggart immediately, just from the way the man stood.

Haggart was an old-timer who’d never managed to pass the sergeant’s exam. He’d gotten Jack out of a scrape or two through the years, and while Jack didn’t consider him the brightest bulb in the chandelier, he was a good cop who understood the street.

“Bored, were you?” Haggart said as he gave Roy’s body a once-over.

“Yeah,” Jack said, wishing like hell he could sit down. “Finished all my crossword puzzles.”

Jack didn’t know the driver of the patrol car well. Fetzer was his name. Paul Fetzer. Young guy, Nordic-looking with his white-blond hair and pale skin. Jack had heard he was a hot dog, looking to get into homicide, but just like everyone else, he needed to do his time. Putting him with Haggart was probably good for both of them.

“What happened?” Paul asked, moving next to Haggart. “You know him?”

“He lives in the building,” Jack said. “I’ve seen him around.”

“You see who did this?” Haggart asked, his voice dramatically sharper now that Paul was listening.

Jack decided right then that he wasn’t going to tell them about the unmarked car. He wasn’t sure why, just a feeling. He’d learned to listen to his gut reactions. At least most of the time. The bullet in his hip was a good reminder of what happened when he didn’t. “I saw a car. It was too dark to make out anything much. It was a sedan, late model. They used a silencer. I heard two shots.”

“They?” Paul repeated. “There was more than one?”

Jack nodded. “Driver and passenger. Both males. I couldn’t see if they were Caucasians. The light hit the car wrong, and all I got were shadows. I couldn’t run after them to get the license plate.”

“Pardon me for being blunt,” Haggart said, “but you look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it. The ambulance should be here any second. Maybe you should let the paramedics take a look at you.”

“I’m fine. You might as well call them off. Get someone from the medical examiner’s office down here.”

“Did you touch anything?” Paul asked as he moved closer to Roy and crouched down. He pulled out his flashlight, and focused the beam on Roy’s chest. It looked to Jack like it had been a large-caliber weapon. There was a hell of a lot of damage.

“I touched his neck for a pulse,” Jack said. “That’s it.”

“How’d you happen to see this?” Haggart asked.

“Insomnia,” Jack answered, not lying exactly. Just not telling the whole story.

“Out for a walk at this time of night?”

He shook his head. “I heard something. I came outside, saw the car, heard the shots. By the time I made it down the stairs, Roy here was dead and the car was long gone.”

“Roy what?”

“Chandler. I think he lived on the second floor. Around back.”

The ambulance came screaming into the parking lot, but the driver cut the siren immediately, filling the night with an echo of sadness. Jack shifted a bit, which was a mistake. He winced and sucked in a sharp breath.

Haggart moved closer to him, probably worried that he was goning to fall on his face. “Why don’t you go on up,” he said, his voice concerned. “We can take care of things down here. We know where to find you tomorrow.”

Jack didn’t take long to decide. He needed to sit down. Take a pill. Make sure the kid upstairs hadn’t fallen off the couch. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be around.”

A female paramedic Jack didn’t know circled the police car and knelt beside Roy. She put her kit next to her knee and gestured to Paul to back off. The young cop did as she asked, but he didn’t seem real happy to be brushed aside.

Jack didn’t give a damn. He had his own problems. He nodded to Haggart, then started the long voyage home. Walking across the parking lot was hard enough. The stairs were going to be murder.

THE KID WAS STILL SLEEPING when he got back. After three pain pills and about half an hour of sitting still on the lounger, Jack was able to stand again. He crossed to the girl, noticing for the first time that she had a doll clutched in her right hand. It wasn’t a very nice doll. The hair was all ratty, with big holes in the scalp where the strands had been tied. One eye was open, the other closed in a perpetual wink. There was a stain on the doll’s cheek that looked like blue ink.

What a damn mess. He didn’t like dirty cops, and he didn’t like cryptic deathbed messages, and he didn’t like the fact that the sun was going to rise any minute and he hadn’t slept. The kid was going to wake up eventually, and she’d want to know where her parents were, and she’d cry and carry on and…oh, hell. Jack made it back to the lounger and sank gratefully onto the cushion. The smart thing to do was call family services as soon as possible. Go to the captain and tell him what he heard and what he saw. End this thing before it went any further.

Even if there was a crime to be solved, he wasn’t the man to solve it. Not anymore. Not with this body. All he was good for was watching daytime television.

HE WOKE UP to a pair of blue eyes. Big round blue eyes, inches from his face. The kid was up and she’d climbed onto his lap, somehow avoiding his bad hip. One inch to the right, and he’d have been one sorry ex-cop.

“Where’s my daddy?”

The girl had her doll under one arm and her quilt under the other. She looked amazingly calm, as if she woke up in a stranger’s house all the time.

“I have to go potty.”

Perfect. She had to go potty. He had no idea what that entailed—well, except for the fundamentals, of course. Was he supposed to help her? Lead her to the bathroom and leave? Change her diaper?

She wasn’t wearing a diaper. He could see that from the way her Little Mermaid pajamas fit. “Climb down,” he said. “Carefully.”

She obeyed him, moving slowly and cautiously until she stood next to the chair, but she never took her eyes off him, not even for a second.

“Can you do it by yourself?”

“What?”

“Can you go potty by yourself?”

She nodded, the curls on her head waving with the movement.

Jack pointed to the hallway. “It’s right over there,” he said. “Just walk down the hall.”

She blinked at him, then turned, her quilt trailing behind her as she padded toward the bathroom. He focused on his own problem: getting up and making coffee. He swallowed another pill, then went to the kitchen for a water chaser. His leg felt stiffer than usual, but he expected that. The doctors had said the pain would be temporary, lasting just a few months. In his opinion, four was more than a few. So when was this miraculous recovery supposed to kick in?

At least he’d gotten his morning routine worked out. He’d set up the kitchen to require the fewest steps necessary. Coffee, filters, the machine, all next to the sink. After he finished pouring and counting, he checked his watch. Seven-thirty. He’d call family services at eight.

He heard a shuffle and looked in the living room. The girl stood by the hallway, staring at him. “Where’s my daddy?” she asked again.

He didn’t know what to say. How to say it. The kid was so young.

She blinked a few times, as if she was trying to get him into focus. “I want Hailey,” she said.

Hailey. Who the hell was—“You mean that woman down the hall? The blond lady?”

The girl nodded. “Hailey. She’s my baby-sitter.”

“Hailey,” he repeated, thinking about where he’d seen her. In the laundry room, that was it. A couple of months ago. With the kid. She’d helped him carry his clothes upstairs. “Let’s go see Hailey, okay?”

The kid nodded. “Is my daddy there?”

“We’ll see,” he said, chickening out. He started toward her, and she went to the door. She put her doll on the floor and grasped the doorknob. It took her a few tries, but she got the door open, and then she picked up her doll again. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t look scared. She waited patiently for him to reach her side and then closed the door behind them.

Something wasn’t right. He didn’t know much about kids, but even he knew she ought to be scared out of her wits.

She led him down the walkway, past the five doors that separated his place from Hailey’s. Then she stopped. Shifted her doll under her arm and put her thumb in her mouth.

Jack knocked on Hailey’s door. Checked the kid, then knocked again, praying the woman was home. Then he heard the dead bolt slip and the door swung open.

She was still in her bathrobe. She looked at him with a question in her eyes, then she saw the girl. “Megan!”

“Is my daddy here?”

Hailey’s gaze moved back to Jack. “What’s going on?”

“Can we talk?”

Her brow furrowed with concern, but she didn’t press him. She picked Megan up, then held the door open for him. The second he walked inside, he knew he’d done the right thing. The kid would feel safe here. Hell, he felt safe here. And he hadn’t felt safe in about a hundred years.